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1 


THE    POEMS    OF 
JOSEPH    MARY    PLUNKETT 


The  Frontispiece  is  from  a  Memory  Drawing 
by  Mrs.  Joseph  Plunkett 


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"ii6 


The  Poems  of 
Joseph  Mary  Plunkett 


New  York 
Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company 

Publishers 


Printed  by 

The  Educational  Company  of  Ireland 

at 

The   Talbot    Press 

89  Talbot  St..  Dublin 


CONTENTS 


Foreword 


OCCULTA 


Seals  of  Thunder 

Invocation 

Daybreak 

The  vSplendour  of  God 

The  Living  Temple 

Initiation 

Aaron 

In  the  Wilderness 

Arbor  Vitae 

La  Pucelle 

Occulta 

Heaven  in  Hell 

Your  vSongs 

The  Vigil  of  Love 

The  Lions 

The  Worm  Joseph 

The  White  Feather 

Your  Fear 

The  Mask 

No  Song 

The  Cloud 

Moriturus  Te  Salutat 

The  Dark  Way 

Toihthe 

The  Living  Wire 

Die  Taube 

The  Spark 


PACB 

vii. 

1 
2 
3 
4 

8 
8 
9 
10 
11 
13 
15 
16 
23 
24 
26 
27 
28 
29 
31 
33 
34 
35 
36 
38 
39 
40 
42 


07 


4S9 


Vi.  CONTKNTS 

EARLIER    AND    LATER    POEMS 

PAGK 

The  New  Judas  49 

I  see  His  Blood  upon  the  Rose  50 

The  Stars  sang  in  God's  Garden  51 

I  saw  the  Sun  at  Midnight  52 
It  is  her  Voice  who  dwells  within  the  Emerald  Wall 

and  Sapphire  House  of  Flame  53 

A  Wave  of  the  Sea  54 

White  Waves  on  the  Water  55 

This  Heritage  to  the  Race  of  Kings  56 

1841-1891  57 

1867  58 
To  CAicilin  tii  htlAllAch<^in — The  Little  Black  Ro.se 

shall  be  Red  at  last  59 

Nomina  Sunt  Consequentia  Rerum  61 

My  Lady  has  the  Grace  of  Death  62 

0  Lovely  Heart  63 

1  love  you  with  my  every  Breath  64 
O  Bright  !  thy  Stateliness  and  Grace  65 

-White  Dove  of  the  Wild  Dark  Eyes  66 

My  Soul  is  Sick  with  Longing  67 

When  all  the  Stars  become  a  Memory  6^) 

Your  Pride  70 

If  I  should  need  to  tear  aside  71 

When  I  am  Dead  72 

The  Claim  that  has  the  Canker  on  the  Rose               73 

Your  Fault  74 

There  is  no  Deed  I  would  not  dare  76 

New  Love  78 

Before  the  Glory  of  your  Love  79 
To    Grace — On    the    morning    of  her  christening, 

April  7th,  1916  80 

Prothalamion  81 

See  the  Crocus'  Golden  Cup  82 

Signs  and  Wonders  83 

Obscurity  and  Poktry  85 


FOREWORD 

Joseph  Pi^unkett  was  the  son  of  Count  and 
Countess  Plunkett,  and  was  born  in  Dublin  in 
November,  1887.  He  attended  the  CathoUc 
University  School  and  Belvedere  College,  but 
his  wide  reading  did  more  to  educate  him  than 
any  schools. 

He  followed  the  two  years  Philosophy  course 
at  Stony  hurst  College  when  he  was  eighteen. 
This  made  a  strong  impression  on  him.  He  kept 
up  the  study  of  Scholastic  Philosophy  and  was 
very  much  influenced  by  mystical  contemplation 
"  or  loving  inclination  towards  God."  The  books 
that  were  his  most  constant  companions  were 
St.  John  of  the  Cross,  St.  Teresa,  St.  Francis, 
and  John  Tauler.  Their  mark  on  his  poetry 
is  very  plain,  though,  as  his  short  article 
on  Obscurity  and  Poetry  will  show,  he  would 
apply  the  term  "  mystic  "  to  but  a  very  small  part 
of  his  own  verse.  He  showed  me  two  or  three 
poems  that  he  called  mystic,  but  I  cannot  find 
these  now  and  must  presume  them  destroyed.  Of 
course  he  employed  the  symbolism  of  the  mystics 
broadcast. 

He  was  obliged  by  ill-health  to  spend  a  great 
deal  of  his  short  life  in  inactivity  and  to  winter 
abroad.     He    and    his    mother    spent    a    winter 

•''vii. 


viii.  FOREWORD 

travelling  in  Itaty,  Sicily  and  Malta,  where  he  had 
a  good  friend,  and  another  winter  was  spent  in 
Algiers  with  a  sister,  where  he  studied  the  Arabic 
Hterature  and  language,  enlarging  his  range 
of  images  by  what  he  found  there,  though  it  is 
curious  that  the  only  poem  which  is  purely  Arabic 
in  imagery  is  the  short  poem,  "  It  is  her  voice  that 
dwells  within  the  emerald  walls  and  sapphire 
house  of  flame,""'  which  he  wrote  before  he  went 
to  Algiers.  I  also  think  it  possible  that  the  queer, 
flamboyant  and  melodramatic  happenings  which 
there  came  his  way  may  have  coloured  that  part 
of  his  verse  which  is  more  unrestrained  and  violent 
than  the  rest,  for  instance  some  of  the  sonnets 
in  "  Occulta." 

Before  he  went  to  Algiers  he  had  met  Thomas 
MacDonagh — who  was  teaching  at  St.  Enda's 
School,  Rathfarnham,  which  he  had  helped 
P.  H.  Pearse  to  start.  My  brother  wanted  someone 
to  teach  him  Irish  for  the  matriculation  of  the 
National  University  and  Thomas  MacDonagh 
taught  him  for  some  time,  and  when  he  discovered 
my  brother  was  a  poet  I  think  there  was  more 
poetry  than  pedagogy  in  their  relationsliip. 
"  The  Circle  and  the  Sword  "  was  published  in 
1 91 1,  the  year  my  brother  was  in  Algiers.  Thomas 
MacDonagh  made  the  selection  himself  from  my 
brother's  poems,  and  saw  the  book  through  the 
press. 

TiUe  from  "  The  Mistress  of  Vision,  "  by  Francis  Thompson. 


FOREWORD  IX 

Although  there  are  a  good  many  immature  and 
defective  poems  in  it  it  is  rather  remarkable  for 
a  first  book.  The  lyric,  "  White  Dove  of  the  Wild 
Dark  Byes  "  would  be  difficult  to  surpass  on  its 
own  ground  ;  the  sonnet  "  I  saw  the  sun  at 
midnight,  rising  red,"  the  poems  "  1867,"  "  I  see 
his  blood  upon  the  rose,"  "  My  soul  is  sick  with 
longing,"  and  "  The  stars  sang  in  God's  garden  " 
are  all  above  the  level  of  first  books.  I  have 
included  these  and  a  few  others  which  I  thought 
worthy  in  this  book,  as  I  know  he  wished  only 
these  few  to  be  considered  as  part  of  his  mature 
work. 

When  he  returned  from  Algiers  he  had  a  house 
of  his  own  in  Donnybrook,  where  we  kept  house 
together  for  two  and  a  half  years.  With  the 
exception  of  P.  H.  Pearse  and  Thomas  MacDonagh 
he  had  few  other  literary  friends  in  Dublin  up  to 
the  time  he  became  interested  in  the  Irish  Review. 
This  was  started  by  Professor  Houston  in  191 1, 
in  association  with  James  Stephens,  Thomas 
MacDonagh  and  Padraic  Colum.  Mr.  Houston 
edited  it  himself  for  some  time  and  Padraic  Colum 
was  editor  in  1912-13.  Two  poems  of  my  brother's 
were  printed  in  it ;  he  got  to  know  the  people 
who  were  associated  with  it  very  well,  and  in  June, 
1 913,  he  became  editor  himself. 

Any  cause  he  was  interested  in  was  discussed 
in  the  Review  ;  for  instance,  the  men's  case  in  the 
strike  of  summer,   1913,  and  the  Volunteer  move- 
CD  316)  2A 


X  FOREWORD 

ment  from  November  of  the  same  year  to  the 
date  of  the  seizure  of  a  large  number  of  copies 
of  the  Review  by  the  pohce  in  London  in  Novem- 
ber, 1914.  Joseph  Campbell,  Conal  O'Riordan, 
James  Cousins,  Lord  Dunsany,  Darrell  Figgis, 
Arthur  Griffith,  Mary  Hay  den,  W.  M.  Letts,  Susan 
Mitchell,  Seumas  O'SuUivan,  M.  A.  Rathkyle, 
Frederick  Ryan,  Sheehy  Skeffington,  Jack  Morrow, 
John  Mac  Neill,  Peter  Mac  Brien — these,  with 
Thomas  Mac  Donagh,  James  Stephens,  Padraic 
Colum,  P.  H.  Pearse,  Edward  Marty n,  and  David 
Houston  are  the  names  of  the  goodly  company  who 
were  constant  contributors  to  the  Review. 

Sir  Roger  Casement,  who  was  my  brother's  in- 
timate friend,  had  written  articles  for  the  Review 
when  Padraic  Colum  was  editor,  and  continued 
to  write  in  prose  and  verse  for  my  brother.  The 
Review  was  not  in  good  financial  condition  when 
it  came  into  his  hands,  and  as  he  had  not 
sufiicient  capital  to  put  it  properly  on  its  feet, 
he  just  kept  it  going  in  the  same  way  as  he  found 
it  until  the  police  seizure  in  London,  which  I 
have  mentioned,  made  the  loss  too  great  for  it 
to  be  carried  on  any  longer. 

From  the  time  we  were  in  Donnybrook,  Thomas 
MacDonagh  and  my  brother  lived  and  worked  in 
close  relationship.  Apart  from  the  Review  they 
criticised  everything  each  of  them  wrote  in  the 
most  vigorous  way,  and  to  them  criticism  was  an 
exact    science.     My    brother    published    Thomas 


FOREWORD  XI 

MacDonagh's  "  Lyrical  Poems,"  and  they  were 
both  keenly  interested  in  the  printing  and  form  of 
the  book.  He  also  published  P.  H.  Pearse's 
"  Suantraidhe  agus  Goltraidhe." 

The  Irish  Theatre  was  started  in  1914  by  a  part- 
nership consisting  of  Edward  Martyn,  Thomas 
MacDonagh  and  my  brother.  Its  purpose,  as 
opposed  to  the  purpose  of  the  Abbey  Theatre,  was 
to  produce  Irish  plays  other  than  peasant  plays, 
plays  in  Irish,  and  foreign  masterpieces.  They 
played  periodically  in  Hardwicke  Street,  and 
produced  plays  by  Edward  Martyn,  Eimar  O'Dufiy, 
John  MacDonagh,  Tchekoff,  etc.,  and  have  been  on 
the  whole  very  successful  in  carrying  out  their 
objects.  Towards  the  last  six  months  my  brother 
disagreed  with  the  other  directors  for  not  abiding 
by  the  spirit  of  the  agreement  and  definitely 
dissociated  himself  from  the  Theatre  on  the 
production  of  Strindberg's  "  Easter."  The  Irish 
Theatre  is  still  in  existence  and  is  being  carried  on 
by  Mr.  Martyn  and  Mr.  John  MacDonagh. 

The  first  section  of  this  volume — "  Occulta  " — 
was  to  have  been  my  brother's  next  book.  He 
arranged  it  himself  in  the  order  in  which  it  now 
stands,  wherein  the  sequence  of  thought  is 
unbroken.  I  have  gathered  together  in  the  second 
part  his  later  verse  and  those  earlier  poems 
which  he  would  have  considered  worthy  of 
republication,  including  those  from  the  "  Circle 
and  the  Sword."     Many   of  his  poems  have  been 


Xll  FOREWORD 

destroyed,  or  at  any  rate  are  irrecoverable,  and 
these  poems  of  the  second  section  are  fragmentary 
and  disconnected — but  I  have  not  included  in  this 
book  anything  I  think  he  thought  second  rate,  and 
have  omitted  a  fairly  long  poem  that  I  am  sure 
he  intended  to  be  left  out. 

He  had  outgrown  all  tours  de  force,  all  false 
standards,  and  gone  to  the  desperate  simplicity 
which  is  so  hard  to  reach. 

He  wrote  verse  with  difficulty,  but,  once  written, 
rarely  made  any  alteration.  In  this  he  differed 
in  an  extraordinary  degree  from  Thomas  Mac- 
Donagh,  who  suffered  in  equal  measure  from  a  too 
great  facility  in  verse  writing,  and  would  alter  a 
completed  poem  repeatedly  till  he  was  satisfied 
that  it  approximated  to  the  poem  of  his  imagina- 
tion. The  poems  in  this  book  have  an  appearance 
of  ease,  but  they  were  written  after  the  author  had 
mastered  his  medium  and  the  very  labour  that 
went  to  their  making  has  but  made  them  flow 
more  evenly  and  contributed  to  the  effect.  He 
did  not  consider  the  versifying,  but  the  thought 
expressed,  to  be  of  importance,  and  did  not  put 
much  value  on  his  best  lyrics,  as  e.g.,  the  poem 
called  "  O  Lovely  Heart  !  " 

Though  my  brother  and  Thomas  MacDonagh 
differed  widely  in  their  methods  of  writing,  their 
critical  standards  and  judgments  were  alike. 
In  the  article  "  Obscurity  and  Poetry,  "  reprinted 
here,  there  is   a  great  likeness  to  the  character  of 


FOREWORD  XIU 

Thomas  MacDonagh's  last  book,  both  in  the 
matter,  that  is  in  the  aspects  of  the  subject 
discussed,  and  the  curiously  painstaking  method 
of  discussion,  due,  I  believe,  to  the  fact  that  they 
were  dealing  with  what  was  to  them  an  exact 
science  for  which  they  had  no  exact  terms. 

Their  spoken  criticism  also  had  the  same  char- 
acteristics— both  of  them  as  quick,  to  construct 
as  to  destroy,  to  praise  as  to  blame,  not  sparing  in 
either,  though  Thomas  MacDonagh  was  the  more 
severe  of  the  two. 


There  are  a  few  verses  which,  while  out  of  place 
in  the  text,  I  do  not  care  to  omit,  and  there  is  one 
ballad,  better  than  either  of  these  which  follow, 
that  it  is  perhaps  too  soon  to  publish.  The  ballad 
of  the  "  Foot  and  Mouth  "  is  an  extremely  good 
imitation  of  the  old  topical  ballad,  with  all  its 
beautiful  badnesses.  It  is  sung  to  "  The  Groves 
of  Blarney." 

As   I   walked   over   to   Magheraroarty 

On  a  summer's  evening  not  long  ago, 

I  met  a  maiden  most  sadly  weeping, 

Her  cheeks  down  streaming  with  the  signs  of  woe. 

I  asked  what  ailed  her,  as  sure  became  me 

In  manner  decent  with  never  a  smile 

She  said  I'll  tell  thee,  O  youthful  stranger. 

What  is  my  danger  at  the  present  time. 


XVI  FOREWORD 

One  last  fragment,  written  for  his  sister  Moya,  in 
Algiers,  in  191 1,  where  sounds  like  this  occurred 
so  often  that  they  were  part  of  the  place  : 

MURDER 

The  clatter  of  blades  and  the  clear 
Cold  shiver  of  steel  in  the  night — 
Blood  spurts  in  the  strange  moonlight — 

The  pattering  footsteps  of  fear, 
A  little  thud  and  a  sigh — 

The  babbling  whispers  are  still. 

Clouds  come  over  the  hill 
Silence  comes  over  the  sky. 

Geraldine  Pi.une:ett. 


^oth  June,  191 6. 


OCCULTA 

JOSEPH    M.   PLUNKETT 


These  were  written  between 
Nov.,   1911.     and     July,   1915 


To 
THE  LADY  ELECT 

This  Book  is  Dedicated 

for  by  the  greatness  of  the  beauty 
and  of  the  creature  the  creator  of 
them  may  be  seen  so  as  to  be  known 

THEREBY  SaP.    XIII.    5. 

MOREOVER,  BY  MEANS  OF  HER  I  SHALL 
HAVE  IMMORTALITY  AND  SHALL  LEAVE 
BEHIND  ME  AN  EVERLASTING  MEMORY  TO 
THOSE  THAT  COME  AFTER  ME 

Sap.  VIII.  13, 


.  •  •  %  »     »  >  ■> 


SEALS   OF  THUNDER 

They  say  I  sing  in  secrets — they  have 

ears 
But  do  not  hear ;   have  eyes  but  do  not 

see 
Truth's  naked  beauty  is  her  panoply. 
Their  eyes  are  bhnded  with  its  splendid 

spears. 
With   shadowy   symbols   fitted   to   their 

fears 
Now  will  I  clothe  a  visible  mystery, 
Yet  none  shall  understand  the  prophecy 
Save  you,  nor  pay  the  tribute  of  their 

tears. 

But  you  will  understand  me,  for  I  speak 
First  to  your  heart,  then  to  your  soul  in 

song 
Spreading   its   golden   pennons   for   the 

strong, 
Smiting  like  sunrise  on  the  snowy  peak 
Of  glory — and  to  you  the  stars  belong 
And  all  the  glowing  splendours  that  I 

seek. 


INVOCATION 

Sing  all  ye  mouths  of  music,  sing  her 
praise 

All  stars  and  birds  and  flowers,  all  lovely- 
things 

Living  in  Earth  and  Heaven,  Eyes  and 
Wings 

Of  Cherubim  and  Seraphim  that  raise 

Vision  and  Love  Eternal ;    all  her  ways 

Fill  with  your  music,  let  no  wind  that 
sings 

Of  sorrow  wither  Joy's  young  blossom- 
ings : 

Prepare  her  paths  against  the  fateful 
days 

When  she  shall  need  flower-lamps  before 
her  feet 

And  herald-birds  and  all  the  stars  to  hold 

Her  heart  upon  the  difficult  laughter- 
sweet 

Blood-salt  and  sorrow-bitter  ways  of  gold 

That  she  must  tread,  until  her  heart  un- 
fold 

Its  quivering  pinions  for  the  Paraclete. 


DAYBREAK 

As  blazes  forth  through  clouds  the  morn- 
ing sun 

So  shines  your  soul,  and  I  must  veil  my 
sight 

Lest   it  be  stricken  to  eternal  night 

By  too  much  seeing  ere  my  song  be  done, 

And  I  must  sing  your  body's  clouds  that 
run 

To  hide  you  with  their  crimson,  green 
and   white 

At  sunset  dawn  and  noon — and  then  the 
flight 

Of  stars  that  chant  your  praise  in  unison. 

But  I  beneath  the  planetary  choir 

Still  as  a  stone  lie  dumbly,  till  the  dark 

Lifts  its  broad  wings — then  swift  as  you 

draw  nigher 
I  raise  Memnonian  song,   and  all  must 

hark, 
For  you  have  flung  a  brand  and  fixed  a 

spark 
Deep  in  the  stone,  of  your  immortal  fire. 


THE   SPLENDOUR   OF   GOD 

The  drunken  stars  stagger  across  the  sky, 

The  moon  wavers  and  sways  Hke  a  wind- 
blown bud, 

Beneath  my  feet  the  earth  hke  drifting 
scud 

Lapses  and  shdes,  wallows  and  shoots 
on  high  ; 

Immovable  things  start  suddenly  flying 

by, 

The  city  shakes  and  quavers,  a  city  of 

mud 
And   ooze — a   brawling   cataract   is   my 

blood 
Of  molten  metal  and  fire — like  God  am  L 

When  God  crushes  his  passion-fruit  for 

our  thirst 
And  the  universe  totters — I  have  burst 

the  grape 
Of  the  world,  and  let  its  powerful  blood 

escape 

4 


THE    SPLENDOUR    OF    GOD  5 

Untasted  —  crying    whether    my    vision 

durst 
See    God's   high   glory   in   a   girFs   soft 

shape — 
God  !     Is  my  worship  blessed  or  accurst  ? 


(D  316) 


THE    LIVING    TEMPLE 

O    Covenant !      O    Temple !       O    frail 

pride 
Of  God's  high  glory  1     Set  your  snowy 

feet 
On  the  Red  Mountain,  while  the  pinions 

beat 
Of   proximate   apocalypse.     Uncried 
Halloos  of  havoc,  prophecies  denied 
Fulfilment  till  the  Dawn  of  Wonder,  fleet 
In  songs  precursive  down  the  glittering 

street 
Where  dripped  the  blood  from  wounded 

brows  and  side. 

And  you  must  walk  the  mountain  tops 

where  rode 
Gabriel,    Raphael,    Michael,    when    the 

stars 
Fell  from  their  places,  and  where  Satan 

strode 

6 


THE   LIVING  TEMPLE  7 

To  make  his  leap.  Now  bend  the  crack- 
ing spars 

Athwart  the  mast  of  the  world — and  five 
deep  scars 

From  that  strong  Cross  call  you  to  their 
abode. 


INITIATION 

Our  lips  can  only  stammer,  yet  we  chant 
High  things  of  God.     We  do  not  hope 

to  praise 
The  splendour  and  the  glory  of  his  ways 
Nor  light  up  Heaven  with  our  low  de- 
scant : 
But  we  will  follow  thee,  his  hierophant 
Filling  with  secret  canticles  the  days 
To   shadow   forth  in   symbols   for   their 

gaze 
What  crowns  and  thrones  await  his  mili- 
tant. 

For  all  his  beauty  showered  on  the  earth 
Is  summed  in  thee,  O  thou  most  perfect 

flower  ; 
His  dew  has  filled  thy  chalice,  and  his 

power 
Blows  forth  the  fragrance  of  thy  mystic 

worth  : 
White  blossom  of  his  Tree,  behold  the 

hour  ! 
Fear  not !  thy  fruit  is  Love's  most  lovely 

birth. 


AARON 

I  am  the  Seer  :    for  in  you  I  see 
The  fair  unfolding  of  a  secret  flower, 
The  pomp  and  pageant  of  eternal  power, 
The    crown    and    pride    of    your    high 

destiny. 
I  am  the  Prophet :   this  your  prophecy — 
Your  deeds  and  Heaven's  fill  the  echoing 

hour. 
The  Splendour  of  all  splendours  for  your 

dower 
Is  given,  a  witness  of  the  things  to  be. 

I  am  the  Poet,  but  I  cannot  sing 
Of  your  dear  worth,  or  mortal  or  divine  ; 
No  music  hidden    in    any  song  of  mine 
Can  give  you  praise  ;  yet  the  trimmed  rod 

I  bring 
To  you,   O  Temple,   asking,   for  a  sign. 
That  in  the  morn  it  may  be  blossoming. 


IN   THE   WILDERNESS 

Gaunt  windy  moons  bedraggled  in  the 

dusk 
Have  drifted  by  and  withered  in  their 

shame. 
The   once-proud   Thunder-Terror,    fallen 

tame. 
Noses  for  truffles  with  unwhetted  tusk ; 
A  sickening  scent  of  civet  and  of  musk 
Has  clogged  the  nostrils  of  the  Hound 

of  Fame — 
But  flickering  stars  are  blown  to  vivid 

flame 
When  leaps  your  beauty  from  its  blazing 

husk. 

Blossom    of    burning    solitude  !       High 

things 
Are  lit  with  splendour — Love  your  glim- 
mering ray 
Smites  them  to  glory — below  them  and 

away 
A  little  song  floats  upward  on  the  wings 
Of  daring,  and  the  thunders  of  the  Day 
Clamour  to  God  the  messages  it  brings. 


10 


ARBOR  VITAE 

Beside  the  golden  gate  there  grows  a  tree 
Whose  heavy  fruit  gives  entrance  to  the 

ways 
Of  Wonder,  and  the  leaves  thereof  are 

days 
Of  desolation — nights  of  agony 
The  buds  and  blossom  for  the  fruits  to 

be  : 
Rooted  in  terror  the  dead  trunk  decays, 
The  burdened  branches  drooping  to  the 

clays  y 

Clammy  with  blood  of  crushed  humanity. 

But  lo  the  fruit !     Sweet-bitter,  red  and 

white. 
Better  than  wine  —  better  than  timely 

death 
When   surfeited   with    sorrow  —  Lo  the 

bright 

11 


1.2  ARBOR  VITAE 

Mansions  beyond  the  gate  !     And  Love, 

thy  breath 
Fanning  our  flaming  hearts  where  entereth 
Thy  Song  of  Songs  with  Love's  tumul- 
tuous hght. 


LA  PUCELLE 

She  walks  the  azure  meadows  where  the 

stars 
Shed  glowing  petals  on  her  moon-white 

feet, 
The  planets  sing  to  see  her,  and  to  greet 
Her,  nebulae  unfold  like  nenuphars. 
No  dread  eclipse  the  morn  of  Heaven 

mars 
But   fades   before   her   fearing,   lest   she 

meet 
With  darkness,  while  the  reckless  comets 

beat 
A  path  of  gold  with  flickering  scimitars. 

The  battle-ranks  of  Heaven  are  march- 
ing past 

Squadron  by  squadron,  battalion,  and 
brigade, 

Both  horse  and  foot — Soundless  their 
swift   parade, 

13 


14  LA   PUCELLE 

Silent  till  she  appears — then  quick  they 

cast 
Upon  the  wind  the  banner  of  the  Maid 
And  Heaven  rocks  with  Gabriers  trum- 
pet-blast. 


OCCULTA 

Crowns  and  imperial  purple,  thrones  of 

gold, 
Onyx  and  sard  and  blazing  diadems, 
Lazuli  and  hyacinth  and  powerful  gems 
Undreamt  of  even  in  Babylon  of  old 
May  for  a  price  be  given,  bought  and 

sold. 
Bartered  for  silver  as  was  Bethlehem's — 
And   yet   a   Splendour   lives   that   price 

contemns 
Since  Five  loud  Tongues  a  deeper  worth 

have  told. 

Braver  is  she  than  ruby,  far  more  wise 
Even  than  burning  sapphire,  than  emerald 
Anchored   more   strongly  to  impalpable 

skies — 
Upon  a  diamond  pinnacle  enwalled 
The  banners  blaze,  and  "  Victor  ''  she  is 

called, 
Youthful,  with  laughter  in  her  twiht  eyes. 


15 


HEAVEN   IN   HELL 

If  the  dread  all-seeing  stars 
Ringed  Saturn  and  ruddy  Mars 
And   their   companions   all   the   seven, 
That   play   before   the   lord   of   heaven, 
Each  blossoming  nebula  and  all 
The   constellations,   were   to   fall 
Low  at  my  feet  and  worship  me, 
Endow  me   with   all   sovranty 
Of  their  wide  kingdom  of  the  blue — 
Yet  I  would  not  believe  that  you 
Could  love  me — If  besides  the  nine 
Encircling   legions   all-divine 
Should,  chanting,  teach  me  that  my  worth 
Outshone  the  souls  of  men  on  earth 
And  seraphs  in  Heaven,  and  as  well 
That  glittering  demons  deep  in  Hell 
Fled  at  my  frown,   obeyed  my  word — 
If  every  flower  and  beast  and  bird 
In  God's  great  earth  and  splendid  sea 
Should  live  and  love  and  fight  for  me 

16 


HEAVEN   IN    HELL  I7 

And  my  sweet  singing  and  sad  art — 
Yet  could  I  not  conceive  your  heart 
Stooping  to  mine,  nor  your  wild  eyes 
Unveiling  their  deep  ecstasies, 
Your  tenebrous  hair  sweep  near  my  lips, 
Your  eyelids  bring  your  soul  eclipse 
For  fear  that  I  should  be  made  blind 
By  love's  bright  image  in  your  mind. 
You  are  the  Standard  of  high  Heaven, 
The   Banner  brave  towards  which   I've 

striven 
To   force  my  way — To   seize   and  hold 
The  citadel  of  the  city  of  gold 
I  must  attain  the  Flag  of  love 
Blazoned  with  the   eternal   Dove. 

Once  Immortality,  a  babe, 
Played  with  the  Future's  astrolabe 
And  marked  a  destiny  thereon 
More  splendid  than  the  morning  sun 
Leaping  to  glory  from  the  earth  : 
More   wondrous   than   the   wonder-birth 
Of  the  white  moon  from  darkest  rock  ; 
More  strange  than  should  the  sun  un- 
lock 
His  leashes  and  let  slip  the  stars ; 


l8  HEAVEN   IN    HELL 

More  desperate  than  the  clanging  wars 
Twixt    Hell    and    Heaven ;     still    more 

great 
Than  any  favourable  fate  ; 
But   beyond    all   things   beautiful, 
Beyond    Mortality's    foot-rule 
Of  loveliness,  and  little  words — 
Sometimes,   at  twilit  eve,   when  birds 
Lapse  from  dream-silence  into  song, 
Sometimes  when  Thunder's  rolling  note 
Reverberates   from   his   iron   throat, 
They  speak  of  such  high  mysteries 
But  no  one  can  interpret  these — 
All    of    this    dim    and    deep    design 
If  I  should  choose,  its  crown  were  mine 
To   win   or   lose   by   my    sole   hand 
And  heart.     I  chose,  and  joined  the  band 
Of  Heaven's   adventurers  that   seek 
To  cHmb  the  never-conquered  peak 
In  solitude  by  their  sole  might. 
In  the  dark  innocence  of  night 
I   fought   unknown  inhuman   foes 
And  left  them  in  their  battle-throes. 

Hacked  a  way  through  them   and  ad- 
vanced 
To  where  the  stars  of  morning  danced 


HEAVEN   IN    HELL  I9 

In  your  high  honour,   there  I  stood 
To   see   you,    till    the   morning-flood 
Burst  from  the  sky — but  your  sunrise 
Striking  my  unaccustomed  eyes 
Smote  them  to  darkness,  and  I  turned 
And  stumbled  towards  the  night.     There 

burned 
In  heart  and  eyes  a  drunken  flame 
That  sang  and  clamoured  out  your  name 
And  woke  a  madness  in  my  head. 
The  enemies  I  had  left  for  dead 
Surrounded  me  with  gibbering  cries 
And  mocked  me  for  my  blinded  eyes. 
I  curst  them  till  they  rose  in  rage 
And  flung  me  down  a  battle-gage 
To  fight  them  on  the  floors  of  Hell 
Where    solely    they're    assailable. 
I  took  the  challenge  straightaway 
And  leaped — and  that  was  yesterday 
Or  was  last  year,  but  every  hour 
For  weary  years  to  break  their  power 
Still  must  I  fight,  but  now  a  gleam 
Of  hope  comes  to  me  like  a  dream, 
To-day,  though  dimly,  I  do  see. 
My  vision  has  come  back  to  me. 
And   I   have   learnt   in   deepest   Hell 


20  HEAVEN   IN    HELL 

Of   Heavenly   mysteries   to    tell, 

I    with    terror-twisted    eyes 

Have    watched    you    play    in    Paradise, 

Tortured  and  torn  by  demons  seven 

Have    kept   my    heart's    gaze    fixed    on 

Heaven, 
Save  when  the  smoky  mists  of  blood 
Have  blinded  me  with  their  fell  flood. 
My  desert  heart  all  desolate 
Lit  with  the  mirage  of  your  hate 
I   searched,   my  vision   held   above. 
For   green    oasis    of   your   love. 
My  heart's  dry  desert,  hot  and  wide, 
Bounded   by   flames   on   every   side, 
So  dim  and  old  no  song  can  tell. 
Covers    the    tombs    where    dead    kings 

dwell : 
Now  demons  dance  upon  their  tombs. 
Shut  with  the  seals  of  lasting  dooms, 
For  them  until   the  world  be  riven 
No  hope  of  Hell,  no  fear  of  Heaven. 
But  I,  alas  !    am  torn  between 
The  things  unseen  and  the  things  seen, 
I  alone  of  the  souls  I  know 
In  Hell  and  Heaven  am  high  and  low, 
High  in  Heaven  and  low  in  Hell : 


HEAVEN   IN    HELL  2T 

From  pit  and  peak  inaccessible 
To  all  but  Satan  and  seraphim 
My  song  gains  power  and  grows  more 
grim. 

Only  the  straining  of  my  vision 
Toward   the   playing-fields   elysian 
Where  you  with  starry  comrades  fling 
Your  fervours  over  eye  and  wing, 
With   deep   and  happy   subtlety 
Flavouring  the  wine-bag  of  the  bee  ; 
Thrones,   principalities  and  powers 
Showering    with    Eden-flowers ; 
With  Michael's  sword  and  RaphaeFs  lute 
Slaying  and  singing,  making  bruit 
Of  lovely  laughter  with  your  lips 
Sounding  as  where  the  honey  drips 
At  reaping-time  by  rippling  brooks 
Twining    between    the    barley-stooks  ; 
Only  your  shape  that  holds  my  sight, 
Your  ways  that  fill  it  with  dehght. 
Your  steps  that  blossom  where  you've^ 

trod, 
Your  laughter  like  the  breath  of  God, 
And  all  the  braveries  that  extol 
The  liying  sword  that  is  your  soul : 

(D316)  C 


22  HEAVEN   IN    HELL 

Only    your    passion-haunted    eyes 
Interpreting    your    mysteries : 
These  are  to  me  and  my  desire 
For  pillar  of  cloud  and  pillar  of  fire, 
A  gleam  and  gloom  of  heaven,  in  hell 
A  high  continuous  miracle. 


YOUR  SONGS 

If  I  have  you  then  I  have  everything 
In  One,  and  that  One  nothing  of  them  all 
Nor  all  compounded,  and  within  the  wall 
Beneath  the  tower  I  wait  to  hear  you  sing  : 
Love   breathing  low    above  the    breast    of 

Spring, 
Pressing   her  heart  with  baby  heart    and 

small 
From  baby  lips  love-syllables  lets  fall 
And  strokes  with  gentle  hand  her    quiver " 

ing  wing. 

You  come  rejoicing  all  the  wilderness, 

Filling  with  praise  the  land  to  joy  un- 
known, 

Fresh  from  that  garden  whose  perfumes 
have  blown 

Down  through  the  valley  of  the  cyp- 
resses— 

O  heart,  you  know  not  your  own  loveli- 
ness. 

Nor  these  your  songs,  for  they  are  yours 
alone. 


23 


THE    VIGIL    OF    LOVE 

Illa  cantat  :  nos  tacemus  :  quando  ver 

venit  meum  ? 
Quando  fiam  uti  chelidon,  ut  tacere 

DESINAM  ? 
PeRDIDI       MuSAM      TACENDO,       NEC       ME 

Phgebus  respicit. 
Sic  Amyclas,  cum  tacerent,  perdidit 

silentium. 
Cras    amet     qui     nunquam    amavit  : 

QUIQUE  amavit  CRAS  AMET. 

She  sings,  but  we  are  silent :   when  shall 

Spring 
Of  mine  come  to  me  ?     I  as  the  swallow 

make 
Me  vocal,  and  this  desolate  silence  break  ? 
The  Muse  has  left  me  for  I  cannot  sing  ; 
Nor  does  Apollo  now  his  splendour  bring 
To  aid  my  vision,  blinded  for  her  sake— 
Thus  mute   Amyclas  would  not  silence 

wake 
And  perished  in  the  shadow  of  its  wing. 

24 


THE   VIGIL   OF   LOVE  25 

The  wings  of  the  imperishable  Dove 

Unfold  for  flight,  and  we  shall  cease  from 
sorrow  ; 

Song  shall  the  beauty  of  dead  Silence 
borrow 

When  lips  once  mute  now  raise  this  chant 
above : 

Love  to  the  loveless  shall  be  given  to- 
morrow, 

To-morrow  for  the  lover  shall  be  love. 


THE  LIONS 

Her   hair's   the   canopy   of   heaven, 
Her  eyes  the  pools  of  heahng  are, 
Her  words  wild  prophecies  whose  seven 
Thunders  resound  from  star  to  star. 

Her  hands  and  feet  are  jewels  fine 
Wrought  for  the  edifice  of  all  grace, 
Her  breath  inebriates  like  wine — 
The  blinding  beauty  of  her  face 

Is  lovelier  than  the  primal  light 
And  holds  her  lover's  pride  apart 
To  tame  the  lions  of  the  night 
That  range  the  wilderness  of  his  heart. 


2C 


THE    WORM    JOSEPH 
(I  am  a  worm  and  no  man — David) 

The  worm  is  clad  in  plated  mail 
And  rides  upon  the  envious  Earth 
His  power  prevails  and  shall  prevail 
When  Death  gleans  in  the  fields  of  Birth, 

He  sips  the  purple  wine  of  kings 
From     burnished     skulls     and     bumper 

hearts, 
Of  fat  and  famine  years  he  sings 
And  fills  his  granaries  from  the  marts. 

His  brethren  that  have  sold  his  name, 
Denied  him  to  his  ancient  Sire, 
Shall  seek  him  when  they  feel  his  fame 
Shall  find  him  when  they  fear  his  fire. 

But  you,   O  Benjamin,   beloved, 
Dove-like  and  young,  with  him  shall  sup 
And  then  departing  unreproved 
Bear  with  you  his  divining  cup. 


27 


THE    WHITE    FEATHER 

I've  watched  with  Death  a  dreadful  year 
Nor  flinched  until  you  plucked  apart 
A  feather  from  the  wings  of  Fear — 
Your  innocence  has  stabbed  my  heart. 

I  took  your  terrible  trust  to  keep, 
Deep  in  my  heart  it  flames  and  sears, 
And  what  I've  sown  I  dare  not  reap 
For  bitterness  of  blinding  tears. 

I  have  not  scattered  starry  seed 

On  windy  ridges  of  the  skies 

But  I  have  ploughed  my  heart  indeed 

And   sown   the   secrets   of   your   eyes. 

And  now  I  cannot  reap  the  grain 
Growing  above  that  stony  sod 
Because  a  shining  plume  lies  plain 
Fallen   from   following   wings   of   God. 


28 


YOUR   FEAR 


1  try  to  blame 

When  from  your  eyes  the  battle-flame 
Leaps  :  when  cleaves  my  speech  the  spear 
For  fear  lest  I  should  speak  your  name  : 

Your   name   that's   known 
But  to  your  heart,  your  fear  has  flown 
To  mine  :   youVe  heard  not  any  bird, 
No  wings  have  stirred  save  yours  alone. 

Alone  your  wings 

Have  fluttered  :    half-forgotten   things 
Come  crowding  home  into  your  heart, 
Filling  your  heart  with  other  Springs, 

Springs  when  you've  sung 
Your  secret  name  with  happy  tongue 
Loudly  and  innocent  as  the  flowers 
Through     hours     of     laughter     proudly 
young. 

29 


30  YOUR    FEAR 

Young  is  the  year 
And  other  wings  are  waking  :    near 
Your  heart  my  name  is  knocking   loud, 
Ah,  be  not  proud  !     You  need  not  fear. 

Fearing  lest  I 

Should  wrest  your  secret  from  on  high 

You  will  not  listen  to  my  name, 

I  cannot  blame  you  though  I  try. 


THE  MASK 

What  have   I   dared  to   claim 
That    you    should    thus    deny  ? 
If  I  have  used  your  name 
My    songs    to    beautify 
Mine  is   the   greater   fame. 

And  I  have  ever  sought 

But   to   proclaim   your   praise, 

I  have  regarded  naught 

When    wandering    by    your    ways 

But   truth,    my   only   thought. 

What    favour    did    I    ask 
That  might   constrain  your  heart 
Or   heavier   make   your   task  ? 
But  now  that  you  depart 
Wearing  a  dreadful  mask. 

And   those   accusing   eyes 
As   still   as   death   and   cold 
Making    my    soul    surmise 
My  song  grown  overbold 
And   all   my   words   unwise — 

31 


32  THE   MASK 

Now  is  my  claim  from  thence 
That  you  should  hear  your  heart's 
Pleading  in  my  defence 
Before   your   praise   departs 
And  all  your  grace  goes  hence. 


NO  SONG 

I  loose  the  secrets  of  my  soul 
And  mint  my  heart   to  heavy  words 
Lest  you  should  need  to  ask  a  dole 
Of  singing  from  the  winds  and  birds — - 
You  will  not  heed  nor  bear  my  soul. 

I  coin  again  a  greater  sum 
Of   silence,    and   you   will   not   heed : 
The    fallow    spaces    call   you    ''Come, 
The  season's  ripe  to   sow  the  seed  '' — ^ 
Both  I  and  these  are  better  dumb. 

I  have  no  way  to  make  you  hear, 
No   song   will   echo   in   your   heart ; 
Now  must  I  with  the  fading  year 
Fade.     Without  meeting  we  must  part — ^ 
No  song  nor  silence  you  will  hear. 


33 


THE  CLOUD 

(O  cloud  well  appointed  ! — Blake) 

I  do  not  know  how  you  can  shun 
His  sight  who  sees  himself  a  clod 
Whose  blindness  still  outstares  the  sun 
And  gazes  on  the  hidden  God. 

I  do  not  know  how  you  can  hate 
A  heart  so  set  about  with  fire, 
A  sword  so  linked  with  heavy  fate 
And   broken   with   unknown   desire. 

I   see  your  eyes  with  glory  blaze 
And   splendour   bind   your   dusky   hair, 
And  ever  through  the  nights  and  days 
My  soul  must  struggle  with  despair. 

Your  beauty  must  forever  be 
My  cloud  of  anguish,   and  your  breath 
Raise  sorrow  like  the  surging  sea 
Around  the  windy  wastes  of  death. 


34 


MORITURUS   TE   SALUTAT 

These  words  that  may  not  reach  your 

heart 
Are  wrong  from  mine  in  bitter  pain, 
You,   reading,   but  despise  their  art 
That  is  not  art  but  blood — in  vain 
The  blood  is  ebbing  from  my  heart. 

The  passions  of  my  toitured  mind 
Trouble  but  lightly  your  calm  soul — 
No   ugliness   besets   the   blind — 
A  shadow  on  darkness  is  the  whole 
Of  my  misfortune  in  your  mind. 

And  yet  I  love  you  that  you  say 
You  will  not  love  me — truth  is  hard, 
'Twere  so  much  easier  to  give  way 
And  stay  the  death-stroke,  my  reward — 
Courage,  brave  heart !  'tis  Love  you  slay. 


35 


THE   DARK  WAY 

Rougher  than  Death  the  road  I  choose 
Yet  shall  my  feet  not  walk  astray, 
Though  dark,  my  way  I  shall  not  lose 
For  this  way  is  the  darkest  way. 

Set  but  a  limit  to  the  loss 

And  something  shall  at  last  abide 

The  blood-stained  beams  that  form  the 

cross 
The  thorns  that  crown  the  crucified  ; 

But  who   shall  lose   all   things  in   One,- 
Shut  out  from  heaven  and  the  pit 
Shall  lose  the  darkness  and  the  sun 
The  finite  and  the  infinite  ; 

And  who  shall  see  in  one  small  flower 
The  chariots  and  the  thrones  of  might 
Shall  be  in  peril  from  that  hour 
Of  blindness  and  the  endless  night ; 

36 


THE    DARK   WAY  37 

And  who  shall  hear  in  one  short  name 
Apocalyptic   thunders   seven 
His  heart  shall  flicker  like  a  flame 
'Twixt    hell's    gates    and    the    gates    of 
heaven. 

For  I  have  seen  your  body's  grace, 
The  miracle  of  the  flowering  rod, 
And  in  the  beauty  of  your  face 
The  glory  of  the  face  of  God, 

And  I  have  heard  the  thunderous  roll 
Clamour  from  heights  of  prophecy 
Your  splendid  name,  and  from  my  soul 
Uprose  the  clouds  of  minstrelsy. 

Now  I  have  chosen  in  the  dark 
The   desolate  way   to   walk   alone 
Yet  strive  to  keep  alive  one  spark 
Of  your  known  grace  and  grace  unknown.- 

And  when  I  leave  you  lest  my  love 
Should  seal  your  spirit's  ark  with  clay. 
Spread    your    bright    wings,    O    shining: 

dove, — 
But  my  way  is  the  darkest  way. 

(1)316)  D 


TOIHTHE 

No  hungry  star  ascendant  at  my  birth 
Foretold  the  famine  that  consumes  my 

days, 
No  flaming  sword  prohibited  the  ways 
Of  vision  where  I  parch  through  beauty's 

dearth, 
Alas  !   no  flower  of  heaven  or  of  earth 
Yields   loveliness   to   fill   your   meed   of 

praise, 
Within  my  heart  no  spark  divine  betrays 
The  power  to  tell  of  your  immortal  worth. 

You  say  you  are  unworthy — how  can  I 
Fend  from  your  truth  the  self -destroying 

dart  ? 
Within  my  shield  of  vision  is  no  part 
Of  mirrored  certitude  you  can  deny  ; 
You  are  what  God  has  made  you — and 

my  heart, 
And  in  this  faith  at  least  Fll  live  and  die. 


38 


THE  LIVING  WIRE 

I  thought  Vd  never  hear  your  tongue 
Again  in  this  dead  world  of  shame 
As  once  when  heart  and  world  were  young 
And  then — you  spoke  my  name. 

The  barriers  of  space  were  spread 
Widely  between  us,   when  a  shaft 
Of  driven  lightning  broke  their  dread, 
Leaping — and  you  had  laughed. 

The  harp-strings  in  the  house  of  gold 
Vibrate  when  chants  the  heavenly  choir, 
My  heart  bound  to  your  heart  you  hold 
With  love — and  a  living  wire. 

We  are  not  separate,  we  two, 
(Alas,  not  one)  beneath  our  feet 
The  blessed  earth  binds  me  to  you. 
The  stones  upon  the  street. 

The  very  stones  cry  out :    No  more 
Seek  separate  paths,  each  step  youVe  trod 
Brings  you  but  nearer  than  before 
Home  to  your  heart — and  God. 


39 


DIE   TAUBE 

To-day  when  I  beheld  you  all  alone 
And  might  have   stayed  to   speak,   the 

watchful  love 
Leapt  up  within  my  heart, — then  quick 

to  prove 
New  strength,   the  fruit  of  sorrow  you 

have  sown 
Sank  in  my  stormy  bosom  like  a  stone 
Nor    dared    to   rise    on   flaming   plumes 

above 
Passionless    winds,    till    you,    O    shining 

dove 
Far  from  the  range  of  wounding  words 

had  flown. 

Far  have  you  flown,  and  blows  of  battle 

cease 
To  drape  the  skies  in  tapestries  of  blood, 
Now  sinks  within  my  heart  the  heaving 

flood 

40 


DIE   TAUBE  41 

And    Love's    long-fluttering    pinions    I 

release, 
Bidding  them  not  return  till  blooms  the 

bud 
On  olive  branch,  borne  by  the  bird  of 

peace. 


THE  SPARK 

Because  I  used  to  shun 
Death  and  the  mouth  of  hell 
And  count  my  battle  won 
If  I  should  see  the  sun 
The  blood  and  smoke  dispel. 

Because  I  used  to  pray 
That  living  I  might  see 
The  dawning  light  of  day 
Set  me  upon  my  way 
And  from  my  fetters  free, 

Because  I  used  to  seek 
Your  answer  to  my  prayer 
And  that  your  soul  should  speak 
For  strengthening  of  the  weak 
To  struggle  with  despair, 

Now  I  have  seen  my  shame 
That  I  should  thus  deny 
My   soul's   divinest   flame, 
Now  shall  I  shout  your  name. 
Now  shall  I  seek  to  die 

42 


THE    SPARK  45 

By  any  hands  but  these 

In  battle  or  in  flood, 

On  any  lands  or  seas, 

No  more  shall  I  share  ease, 

No  more  shall  I  spare  blood 

When  I  have  need  to  fight 
For  heaven  or  for  your  heart, 
Against  the  powers  of  light 
Or  darkness  I  shall  smite 
Until  their  might  depart, 

Because  I  know  the  spark 
Of   God   has   no   eclipse. 
Now  Death  and  I   embark 
And  sail  into  the  dark 
With   laughter   on   our   lips. 


EARLIER    AND 
LATER    POEMS 

JOSEPH    M.    PLUNKETT 


To   HIS   GODSON 
DONAGH   MACDONAGH 


THE   NEW  JUDAS 

Thee,  Christ,  I  sought  to  sell  all  day 
And  hurried  to  the  mart  to  hold 
A  hundred  heavy  coins  of  gold 
And  lo  !    they  would  not  pay. 

But  "  thirty  pieces  of  silver  *'  cried 
(Thine  ancient  price),  and  I  agreed. 
Six  for  each  of  the  wounds  that  bleed 
In  hands  and  feet  and  side. 

''  Including  cross  and  crown  "  we  priced, 
Is  now  their  claim  and  I  refuse, 
I  will  not  bargain  all  to  lose, 
I  will  not  sell  Thee,  Christ  ! 


49 


I  SEE  HIS  BLOOD  UPON  THE 
ROSE 

I  see  his  blood  upon  the  rose 
And  in  the  stars  the  glory  of  his  eyes, 
His  body  gleams  amid  eternal  snows, 
His  tears  fall  from  the  skies. 

I  see  his  face  in  every  flower  ; 

The  thunder  and  the  singing  of  the  birds 

Are  but  his  voice — and  carven  by  his 

power 
Rocks  are  his  written  words. 

All  pathways  by  his  feet  are  worn. 
His  strong  heart  stirs  the  ever-beating 

sea, 
His  crown  of  thorns  is  twined  with  every 

thorn, 
His  cross  is  every  tree. 


50 


THE    STARS    SANG    IN    GOD'S 
GARDEN 

The    stars    sang    in    God's    garden ; 
The  stars  are  the  birds  of  God  ; 
The   night-time  is   God's   harvest, 
Its  fruits  are  the  words  of  God. 

God   ploughed   His   fields   at   morning, 
God  sowed  His  seed  at  noon, 
God  reaped  and  gathered  in  His  corn 
With  the  rising  of  the  moon. 

The    sun    rose    up    at    midnight, 
The  sun  rose  red  as  blood, 
It  showed  the  Reaper,  the  dead  Christ, 
Upon   His   cross   of  wood. 

For  many  live  that  one  may  die. 
And  one  must  die  that  many  live — 
The  stars  are  silent  in  the  sky 
Lest   my  poor  songs  be  fugitive. 


51 


I    SAW    THE    SUN    AT    MIDNIGHT 

I  saw  the  Sun  at  midnight,  rising  red, 
Deep-hued  yet  glowing,  heavy  with  the 

stain 
Of  blood-compassion,  and  I  saw  It  gain 
Swiftly  in  size  and  growing  till  It  spread 
Over  the  stars  ;   the  heavens  bowed  their 

head 
As  from  Its  heart  slow  dripped  a  crimson 

rain, 
Then  a  great  tremor  shook  It,  as  of  pain — 
The  night  fell,  moaning,  as  It  hung  there 

dead. 

O  Sun,   O  Christ,   O  bleeding  Heart  of 

flame  ! 
Thou  givest  Thine  agony  as   our  life's 

worth. 
And  makest  it  infinite,  lest  we  have  dearth 
Of  rights  wherewith  to  call  upon  Thy 

Name  ; 
Thou  pawnest  Heaven  as  a  pledge  for" 

Earth 
And  for  our  glory  sufferest  all  shame. 


52 


IT    IS   HER   VOICE   WHO   DWELLS 

WITHIN     THE     EMERALD     WALL 

AND        SAPPHIRE        HOUSE        OF 

FLAME  : 

Behold  !     a   white   Hawk   tangled   in   a 

twisted  net   of  dreams 
Struggles  no  more,  but  lines  the  cords 

with  feathers  from  her  breast 
Seeing  herself  within  the  mystic  circle  of 

my  voice, 
Whereat    forthwith   its   music    turns   to 

blades  and  tongues  of  fire 
Rending  the  bonds  and  weaving  round 

the  Hawk  a  skein  of  light 
Raising  the  work  and  the  Toiler  to  the 

never-ending   Day. 


53 


(D  316) 


A  WAVE  OF  THE  SEA 

I   am  a  wave  of  the  sea 
And  the  foam  of  the  wave 
And    the    wind    of    the    foam 
And  the  wings  of  the  wind. 

My  soul's  in  the  salt  of  the  sea 
In  the  weight  of  the  wave 
In  the  bubbles  of  foam 
In  the  ways  of  the  wind. 

My  gift  is  the  depth  of  the  sea 
The  strength  of  the  wave 
The    lightness    of    foam 
The    speed    of    the    wind. 


54 


WHITE    WAVES    ON    THE    WATER 

White  waves  on  the  water, 
Gold  leaves  on  the  tree. 
As    Mananan's    daughter 
Arose  froip  her  sea. 

The   bud   and   the   blossom. 
The  fruit  of  the  foam 
From    Ocean's   dark   bosom 
Arose,  from  the  home. 

She    came    at    your   calling, 

O  winds  of  the  world, 

When    the    ripe    fruit    was    falling 

And    the    flowers    unfurled. 

She  came  at  your  crying 
O  creatures  of  earth. 
And  the  sound  of  your  sighing 
Made  music  and  mirth. 

She  came   at  your  keening 

O   dreamers   of  doom, 

And  your  sleep  had  new  dreaming 

And  splendour   and  bloom. 


55 


THIS    HERITAGE    TO    THE    RACE 
OF  KINGS 

This   heritage   to   the   race   of  kings 
Their  children  and  their  children's  seed 
Have  wrought  their  prophecies  in  deed 
Of    terrible    and    splendid    things. 

The  hands  that  fought,  the  hearts  that 

broke 
In  old  immortal  tragedies, 
These  have  not  failed  beneath  the  skies, 
Their  children's  heads  refuse  the  yoke. 

And  still  their  hands  shall  guard  the  sod 
That  holds  their  father's  funeral  urn, 
Still  shall  their  hearts  volcanic  burn 
With  anger  of  the  sons  of  God. 

No  alien  sword  shall  earn  as  wage 
The  entail  of  their  blood  and  tears, 
No   shameful   price   for  peaceful  years 
Shall    ever    part    this    heritage. 


56 


1841 — iSqi 

The  wind  rose,  the  sea  rose 
A  wave  rose  on  the  sea, 
It    sang    the    mournful    singing 
Of  a  sad  centenary  ; 

It   sang   the   song   of  an   old  man 
Whose    heart    had    died    of   grief. 
Whose    soul    had    dried    and     withered 
At  the  falling  of  the  leaf. 

It   sang   the   song  of  a  young  man 
Whose    heart    had    died    of    pain 
When   Spring   was   black   and   withered 
And   the   winter   come    again. 

The   wind   rose,    the   sea   rose 

A  wave  rose  on  the  sea 

Swelled    with    the    mournful    singing 

Of    a    sad    centenary. 


57 


i867 

All  our  best  ye  have  branded 

When  the  people  were   choosing  them. 

When   'twas   Death   they  demanded 

Ye  laughed  !     Ye  were  losing  them. 

But  the  blood  that  ye  spilt  in  the  night 

Crieth  loudly   to   God, 

And  their  name  hath  the  strength  and 

the   night 
Of  a  sword  for  the  sod. 

In  the  days  of  our  doom  and  our  dread 
Ye  were  cruel  and  callous, 
Grim  Death  with  our  fighters  ye  fed 
Through  the  jaws  of  the  gallows  ; 
But  a  blasting  and  blight  was  the  fee 
For   which    ye    had    bartered    them, 
And  we  smite  with  the  sword  that  from  ye 
We  had  gained  when  ye  martyred  them  1 


58 


TO  cAicTUn  riT  tiullAcru\in 


The  Little  Black  Rose  shall  be  Red 
AT  Last 

Because  we  share  our  sorrows  and  our 

joys 
And  all  your  dear  and  intimate  thoughts 

are  mine 
We  shall  not  fear  the  trumpets  and  the 

noise 
Of  battle,  for  we  know  our  dreams  divine, 
And  when  my  heart  is  pillowed  on  your 

heart 
And  ebb  and  flowing  of  their  passionate 

flood 
Shall  beat  in  concord  love  through  every 

part 
Of  brain   and   body — when   at  last   the 

blood 
O'er  leaps  the  final  barrier  to  find 
Only   one   source   wherein   to   spend   its 

strength 

59 


6o  THE  LITTLE  BLACK  ROSE 

And  we  two  lovers,  long  but  one  in  mind 
And  soul,   are  made   one  only  flesh  at 

length  ; 
Praise  God  if  this  my  blood  fulfils  the 

doom 
When  you,  dark  rose,  shall  redden  into 

bloom. 


NOMINA  SUNT  CONSEQUENTIA 
RERUM 

I  felt  within  my  heart  awake  and  glow 
A  spirit  of  Love's  excellence  that  slept, 
Then    I   beheld   Love   as   from   afar   he 

stept 
So  joyful   that   his   face   I   scarce   could 

know. 

He  said  :    Now  think  all  honour  me  to 

show 
And  through   each  word  of  his   Love's 

laughter  crept  ; 
Then  as  my  lord  awhile  his  splendour 

kept, 
Gazing  there  whence  he  came,  where  he 

would  go, 

Nuala  and  Columba  did  I  see 

Come   towards   the   place   where    I   was 

lingering, 
One  marvel  first,  the  other  following, 
And,   even   as  retelleth  memory. 
Love  said  :    That  one  who  follows  this 

our  Spring 
Hath  Love  for  name,  so  like  is  she  to  me. 

{From  the  Vita  Nuova  of  Dante,  translated) 
61 


MY  LADY  HAS  THE  GRACE  OF 

DEATH 

My  lady  has  the  grace  of  Death 
Whose   charity   is   quick   to   save, 
Her  heart  is  broad  as  heaven's  breath. 
Deep  as  the  grave. 

She  found  me  fainting  by  the  way 
And  fed  me  from  her  babeless  breast 
Then  played  with  me  as  children  play, 
Rocked  me  to  rest. 

When  soon  I  rose  and  cried  to  heaven 
Moaning  for  sins  I  could  not  weep, 
She  told  me  of  her  sorrows  seven 
Kissed  me  to  sleep. 

And  when  the  morn  rose  bright  and  ruddy 
And    sweet    birds    sang   on    the    branch 

above 
She   took   my   sword   from   her  side   all 

bloody 
And  died  for  love. 


62 


O   LOVELY    HEART 

O    lovely    heart  !     O    Love 
No  more   be   sorrowful 
Blue    are    the    skies    above 
The   Sprmg  is   beautiful 
And   all   the   flowers 
Are  blest  w4th  gentle  showers. 

Although   the   morning   skies 
Are  heavy  now  with  rain 
And   your   incredulous    eyes 
Are    wondering    at    your    pain. 
Let  them  but  w^eep. 
And   after   give   them   sleep. 

O    sorrowful  !     O    heart 
Whose  joy  is  difficult 
Though  we  two  are  apart — 
Know  you  shall  yet  exult 
xA.nd  all  the  years 
Be  fresher  for  your  tears. 


63 


I    LOVE    YOU    WITH    MY    EVERY 
BREATH  ■ 

I  love  you  with  my  every  breath, 
I  make  you  songs  hke  thunder  birds, 
Give  you  my  Hfe — you  give  me  death 
And  stab  me  with  your  dreadful  words. 

You  laid  my  head   against  your  heart 
Last  night,  my  lips  upon  your  breast 
And  now  you  say  that  we  must  part 
For  fear  your  heart  should  be  oppressed  : 

You  cannot  go  against  the  world 
For  my  sake  only — thus  your  phrase. 
But  I — God's  beauty  is  unfurled 
In  your  gold  hair,  and  in  your  gaze 

The  wisdom  of  God's  bride — each  soul 
That  shares  his  love,  and  yours  and  mine, 
Two  lovers  share  your  aureole 
And  one  is  mortal,   one  divine  : 

One  came  on  earth  that  you  might  know 
His  love  for  you — that  you  deny, 
Now  you  give  me  this  equal  blow  : 
One  died  for  you,  and  one  will  die. 


64 


O  BRIGHT  !    THY  STATELINESS 
AND  GRACE 

O    Bright  !     thy    statehness    and    grace 
Thy  bearing  and  thy  dignity 
Bring  intuition  of  the  place 
That   still   is   native   unto   thee. 

Solely  thy  native  airs  delight 
Can  still  thy  silences  embalm, 
Solely  thy  native  leven  smite 
Through    thunders    of    unbroken    calm, 

A    twyfold    presence    is    and    seems 
To   emanate   from   thine    atmosphere, 
Clothed  in  reality  and  dreams 
It  is  in  heaven,  and  it  is  here. 

The  forms  of  love  enfolding  thee 

To  flowers  of  earth  and  heaven  belong, 

Whose  roots  take  hold  in  mystery 

Too  deep  for  song,   too  deep  for  song. 


65 


WHITE   DOVE   OF  THE  WILD 
DARK    EYES 

AVhite  Dove  of  the  wild  dark  eyes 

Faint  silver  flutes  are  calling 

From  the  night  where  the  star-mists  rise 

And  fire-flies  falling 

Tremble  in  starry  wise, 

Is  it  you  they  are  calling  ? 

White  Dove  of  the  beating  heart 

Shrill  golden  reeds  are  thrilling 

In  the  woods  where  the  shadows  start, 

While    moonbeams,    filling 

With  dreams  the  floweret's  heart 

Its  dreams  are  thrilling. 

While    Dove    of    the    folded    wings, 
Soft   purple   night   is   crying 
With  the  voice  of  fairy  things 
For  you,  lest  dying 
They  miss   your   flashing   wings, 
Your  splendorous  flying. 


66 


MY   SOUL   IS   SICK   WITH 
LONGING 

«> 

My    soul   is   sick   with   longing,    shaken 

with  loss, 
Yea,  shocked  with  love  lost  sudden  in  a 

dream, 
Dream-love  dream-taken,  swept  upon  the 

stream 
Of   dreaming    Truth,    dreamt    true,    yet 

deemed  as  dross  : 
Dreamt  Truth   that  is  to  waking  Truth 

a  gloss, 
Dream-love  that  is  to  the  life  of  loves 

that  seem 
To  bear  the  rood  of  love's  eternal  theme. 
The  strength  that  brings  to  Calvary  their 

cross. 

I  dreamt  that  love  had  lit,  a  burning  bird 
On  one  green  bough  of  Time,   of  that 

dread  tree 
Whereto  my  soul  was  crucified  :    that  he 

67 


68    MY    SOUL    IS    SICK    WITH    LONGING 

Sang  with  a  seraph's  voice  some  won- 
drous word 

Blotting  out  pain,  but  swift  the  branch  I 
heard 

Break,  withered,  and  the  song  ceased 
suddenly. 


WHEN    ALL   THE   STARS    BECOME 
A  MEMORY 

When  all  the  stars  become  a  memory 
Hid  in  the  heart  of  heaven  ;  when  the  sun 
At  last  is  resting  from  his  weary  run 
Sinking  to  glorious  silence  in  the  sea 
Of  God's  own  glory  :  when  the  immensity 
Of  Nature's  universe  its  fate  has  won 
And  its  reward  :  when  death  to  death  is 

done 
And    deathless    Being's    all    that    is    to 

be— 

Your  praise  shall  'scape  the  grinding  of 
the  mills  : 

My  songs  shall  live  to  drive  their  blind- 
ing cars 

Through  fiery  apocalypse  to  Heaven's 
bars  ! 

When  God's  loosed  might  the  prophet's 
word  fulfils, 

My  songs  shall  see  the  ruin  of  the  hills, 

My  songs  shall  sing  the  dirges  of  the 
stars. 


69 


(D  316) 


YOUR  PRIDE 

I  sit  and  beg  beside  the  gate, 
I  watch  and  wait  to  see  you  pass, 
You  never  pass  the  portals  old, 
That  gate  of  gold  like  gleaming  glass. 

Yet  you  have  often  wandered  by, 
Tve  heard  you  sigh,  I've  seen  you  smile, 
You  never  smile  now  as  you  stray — 
You  can  but  stay  a  little  while. 

And  now  you  know  your  task  is  hard, 
You  must  discard  your  jewelled  gear. 
You  must  not  fear  to  crave  a  dole 
From  any  soul  that  waits  you  here. 

And  you  have  still  your  regal  pride 
And  you  have  sighed  that  I  should  see 
Your  gifts  to  me  beside  the  gate. 
Your  pride,   your  great  humility. 


70 


IF     I     SHOULD     NEED     TO     TEAR 

ASIDE 

If  I  should  need  to  tear  aside 

The   veils  that   hide   both   Heaven   and 

Hell 
To  tell  you  that   a  soul  had  died 
That  once  but  tried  to  love  you  well 
No  breath  should  blow  those  veils  aside. 

But  if  I  found  your  soul  could  save 
From  heirs  deep  grave  my  sinking  soul 
Only  if  willingly  you  gave 
rd  take — and  then  Fd  crave  the  whole 
Knowing   you   generous   and   brave. 


71 


WHEN     I     AM     DEAD 

When  I  am  dead  let  not  your  murderous 

tears 
Deface  with  their  slow  dropping  my  sad 

tomb 
Lest  your  grey  head  grow  greyer  for  my 

doom 
And  fill  its  echoing  corridors  with  fears  : 
Your    heart    that    my   stone   monument 

appears 
While  yet  I  live — O  give  it  not  to  gloom 
When  I  am  dead,  but  let  some  joy  illume 
The    ultimate    Victory    that    stings    and 

sears. 

Already  I  can  hear  the  stealthy  tread 
Of  sorrow  breaking  through  the  hush  of 

day; 
I  have  no  hope  you  will  avert  my  dread. 
Too  well  I  know,  that  soon  am  mixed 

with  clay, 
They  mourn  the  body  who  the  spirit  slay 
And  those  that  stab  the  living  weep  the 

dead. 


72 


THE   CLAIM   THAT    HAS   THE 
CANKER  ON  THE  ROSE 

The  claim  that  has  the  canker  on  the 

rose 
Is  mine  on  you,  man's  claim  on  Paradise 
Hopelessly  lost  that  ceaselessly  he  sighs 
And  all  unmerited  God  still  bestows  ; 
The   claim   on   the   invisible   wind   that 

blows 
The  flame  of  charity  to  enemies 
Not  to  the  deadliest  sinner,  God  denies — 
Less  claim  than  this  have  I  on  you,  God 

knows. 

I  cannot  ask  for  any  thmg  from  you 
Because  my  pride  is  eaten  up  with  shame 
That   you   should   think   my   poverty   a 

claim 
Upon  your  charity,  knowing  it  is  true 
That  all  the  glories  formerly  I  knew 
Shone  from  the  cloudy  splendour  of  your 

name. 


73 


YOUR  FAULT. 

It   is    of    1  er   virtues    you   evade    the    snare. 

Then    for   her    faults    you'll   fall   in   love  with   her. 

— Francis  Thompson, 

Your  fault,  Lady,  is  to  be 
Womankind's    epitome  ; 
No  girl's,  but  girl  essential  is  your  being 
Could   we    but    see    beyond    our   mortal 

seeing, 
Could  we  but  hear  beyond  our  mortal 

song 
The  song  immortal  of  seraphic  throng, 
Could  we  but  know  upon  each  mortal 

sign 
The  seal  of  immortality  divine. 

'Tis  no  virtue  that  you  are 
Virtuous — nor  for  the  star 
To  shine,  nor  flowers  to  array 
Themselves   in   glory   from   the   clay ; 
That  yours  is  wisdom  old  and  new 
For  this  we  praise  your  God — not  you  ; 
Yet  there  is  something  we  can  still 
Sing  in  your  praise — your  wayward  will  ; 
Something  there  is  that  you  may  own, 
Your  faults,  thank  God,  are  yours  alone 

74 


YOUR    FAULT  75 

Not  heaven's,  nor  ever  may  we  doubt 
If  these  from  heaven  can  shut  you  out 
Ourselves  shall  storm  the  desperate  road 
And  welcome  you  to  your  abode. 

'Tis  for  this  fault  we  love  you,  that  your 

eyes 
Regard    not    unattainable    Paradise, 
That  not  amid  the  fiery  stars  you  spread 
The  nets  of  your  hair,  not  ever  towards 

the  dead 
Set   your  unwavering  feet,   your  gentle 

words 
Clothe  not  in  thunders  that  make  mute 

the  birds, 
Nor  yet  perplex  your  pentecostal  tongue 
With  songs  too  crazy  to  be  said  or  sung. 
Never  make  moan  of  other's  joys  and 

fears 
And  see  all  Nature  weeping  through  your 

tears, 
Fly  not,  Icarian-winged,  to  the  sun 
Leaving  the  many  to  pursue  the  one. 
Chasing,    yet   hooded   hawk,    a   Shining 

Dove, 
Nor  break  your  heart  about  the  feet  of 

Love. 


THERE  IS  NO  DEED  I  WOULD 
NOT  DARE 

There  is  no  deed  I  would  not  dare, 
Unloving,  but  to  gain  your  smile. 
No  shame  or  sorrow  I  would  not  share 
(Though  withering  in  a  wintry  while) 
If  I  could  win  your  friendship's  grace 
While  Time's  slow  pace  is  lagging  still 
Though  my  lost  heart  should  leave  no 

trace 
Of  Love  on  Heaven's  immortal  will. 

There  is  no  death  I  would  not  crave 
If  thus  I'd  save  your  heart  from  tears  ; 
To  snatch  your  glory  from  the  grave 
I'd  brave  all  fates  and  feel  no  fears 
Although   my  heart   be   calm   and   cold 
And  feel  no  flame  nor  mirth  of  Love, 
Nor  buoyed  with  hope   be   overbold 
To  seize  and  hold  the  shining  Dove. 

But  I  do  love  you  and  I  know 

Nor  any  deed  nor  difficult  quest 

To  try  to  compass,   that  \\'()uld  show 


THERE  IS  NO  DEED  I  WOULD  NOT  DARE 

The  fire  that  burns  within  my  breast  ; 
I  cannot  draw  the  dazzhng  blade 
My  body  sheathes,  Love's  splendid  sword, 
Lest  you  be  blinded — and  dismayed 
To  silence  fall  my  wounded  word. 

If  I  would  do  each  desperate  thing 
Only  to  bring  you  ease  or  mirth 
What   pinnacle   for   Love's   strong   wing 
Towers  above  the  heights  of  Earth  ? 
I  cannot  give  your  soul  belief 
In  the  great  visions  of  my  heart, 
I  cannot,  and  it  is  my  grief 
Do    aught    to    please    you — but    depart. 


NEW   LOVE 

The  day  I  knew  you  loved  me  we  had 

lain 
Deep  in  Coill  Doraca  down  by  Gleann 

na  Scath 
Unknown  to  each  till  suddenly  I  saw 
You  in  the  shadow,  knew  oppressive  pain 
Stopping  my  heart,   and  there  you  did 

remain 
In  dreadful  beauty  fair  without  a  flaw, 
Blinding   the   eyes   that   yet   could   not 

withdraw 
Till  wild  between  us  drove  the  wind  and 

rain. 

Breathless  we  reached  the  brugh  before 

the  west 
Burst  m  full  fury — then  with  lightning 

stroke 
The  tempest  in  my  heart  roared  up  and 

broke 
Its  barriers,  and  I  swore  I  would  not  rest 
Till  that  mad  heart  was  worthy  of  your 

breast 
Or  dead  for  3^ou  —  and  then  this  love 

awoke. 


78 


BEFORE  THE  GLORY  OF  YOUR 

LOVE 

Before  the  glory  of  your  love 
The  beauty  of  the  world  is  bowed 
In  adoration,  and  to  prove 
Your  praises  every  Truth  is  proud  : 

Each   silent   witness   testifies 

Your  wonder  by  its  native  worth 

And  dumbly  its  delight  denies 

That  your  wild  music  may  have  birth  : 

Only  this  madman  cannot  keep 
Your  peace,  but  flings  his  bursting  heart 
Forth  to  red  battle, — while  they  weep 
Your  music  who  have  held  apart. 


79 


TO  GRACE 

On  the  Morning  of  her  Christening, 
April  7th,  1916 

The  powerful  words  that  from  my  heart 
Ahve  and  throbbing  leap  and  sing 
Shall  bind  the  dragon's  jaws  apart 
Or  bring  you  back  a  vanished  spring  ; 
They  shall  unseal  and  seal  again 
The  fount  of  wisdom's  awful  flow, 
So  this  one  guerdon  they  shall  gain 
That  your  wild  beauty  still  they  show. 

The  joy  of  Spring  leaps  from  your  eyes, 
The  strength  of  dragons  in  your  hair. 
In  your  young  soul  we  still  surprise 
The  secret  wisdom  flowing  there  ; 
But  never  word  shall  speak  or  sing 
Inadequate   music   where   abo^'e 
Your  burning  heart  now  spreads  its  wing 
In  the  wild  beauty  of  your  Love. 


80 


PROTHALAMION 

Now   a   gentle   dusk    shall   fall 
Slowly  on  the  world,  and  all 
The   singing  voices   softly  cease 
And  a  silence  and  great  peace 
Cover  all   the  blushing   earth 
Free  from  sadness  as  from  mirth 
While  with  willing  feet  but  shy 
She  shall  tremble  and  draw  nigh 
To  the  bridal  chamber  decked 
With   darkness   by   the   architect 
Of  the  seven  starry  spheres 
And  the  pit's  eternal  fires 
Of  the  nine  angelic  choirs 
And  her  happy  hopes  and  fears. 
Then  this  magic  dusk  of  even 
Shall   give  way  before   the  night — 
Close  the  curtains  of  delight  ! 
Silence  is  the  only  song 
That   can   speak   such   mysteries 
As  to  earth  and  heaven  belong 
When  one  flesh  has  compassed  these. 


81 


SEE  THE  CROCUS'  GOLDEN 
CUP 

See  the  crocus'  golden  cup 
Like  a  warrior  leaping  up 
At  the  summons  of  the  spring, 
"  Guard  turn  out !  "  for  welcoming 
Of  the  new  elected  year. 
The  blackbird  now  with  psalter  clear 
Sings  the  ritual  of  the  day 
And  the  lark  with  bugle  gay 
Blows  reveille  to  the  morn, 
Earth  and  heaven's  latest  born. 


82 


SIGNS   AND   WONDERS 

The  bread  is  mine 

Unmixed  with  leaven 

And   the   purple    wine 

Of    the    Vines    of    Heaven  ; 

I  have  asked  to  see 

If  my  love  shall  be 

At   the   Throne   of   Three 

With    the    splendid    Seven. 

To   a   blinding   car 

Four    living    creatures 

Enharnessed    are, 

Whence    One    whose    features 

Outshine   the   skies 

At  noon,   replies 

With   her   burning   eyes — 

The    eternal    teachers — 

*'  Thy  love   is   a   sword 

In    the    heart    of    slaughter. 

Thy   love   is   a   word 

Of    the    high-king's    daughter, 

A  song  that  is  sung 

In  a  mystic  tongue, 

A    fountain    sprung 

From   the   Living   Water. 

83 


84  SIGNS   AND   WONDERS 

"  And    thy    love    shall    stand 
In    the    courts    of    splendour 
At   the   King's   left   hand, 
Where   she   shall   render 
The    gifts    of    Love 
To   the   throne   above, 
And  a  shining  dove 
Shall  there  attend  her. 

*'  For  thy  love  is  a  sign 
In   the   Book   of  Wonder, 
A    mark    divine 
On   the   seals   of   thunder 
That  the  Spirit's  light 
And    the    Water's    might 
And   the    Blood,    red-bright 
Have    witnessed    under." 


OBSCURITY    x\ND    P0E:TRY 


85 

(D315)  G- 


OBSCURITY  AND  POETRY.* 

By  Joseph  Pi.unkktt 

There  are  two  kinds  of  obscurity — the  obscurity 
of  Art  and  the  obscurity  of  Nature.  They  may 
be  called  the  obscurity  of  mist  and  the  obscurity 
of  mystery.  They  have  nothing  in  common. 
They  are  as  opposed  as  the  poles. 

A  thing  may  be  hidden  by  Art  in  two  ways. 
It  may  be  overlaid  with  irrelevancies,  or  its  ex- 
pression may  be  restrained  to  the  point  of  poverty. 
The  effect  is  the  same.  The  essentials  are  hidden. 
In  Nature  also  (but  by  Nature  we  mean  not  so 
much  apparent  Nature  as  real  Nature)  there  are 
two  ways  by  which  things  may  be  liidden.  They 
may  become  so  common  as  not  to  be  regarded, 
or  they  may  be  so  uncommon  as  not  to  permit 
regard.  They  may  be  as  universal  as  light  or  as 
unique  as  the  sun  Observation  involves  com- 
parison, and  that  which  is  entirely  universal  or 
absolutely  unique — or  both — cannot  be  compared 
with  anything. 

*From  a  Critical  Not'ce  of  Verses  which  appeared  in  "The  Iiish 
Review,"  February,  1914,  Co  lected  Potms  by  Ai,.,  and  Lyrical 
Poems  by  Thomas  AlacDonegh. 

87 
(D  316)  G2 


88  OBSCURITY   AND    POETRY 

An  artist  is  one  who  has  the  power  of  unveiling 
Nature,  only  to  substitute  the  veils  of  Art.  In- 
deed it  is  by  imposing  the  veils  of  Art  that  he  is 
enabled  to  show  the  real  quaUties  and  relations 
of  things.  For  the  veils  of  Art  need  not  be  obscure. 
The  vision  of  the  artist  is  of  such  a  kind  that  it 
penetrates  these  veils  and  thus  can  view  the  reah- 
ties  underlying  them  that  otherwise  could  not 
be  confronted.  It  is  through  his  Art  that  the 
artist  sees. 

The  artist's  task,  however,  is  to  make  others 
see  ;  for  all  Art  is  revelation.  This  he  does  chiefly 
by  the  great  instrument  of  inspiration,  Choice. 
He  chooses  the  portion  or  phase  of  Truth  that  he 
is  to  reveal,  and  he  chooses  the  veils  that  he  must 
impose  in  order  to  make  that  Truth  visible.  Here 
it  is  that  the  artist  is  liable  to  obscurity.  He  is 
apt  to  lose  the  consciousness  of  his  purpose  of 
revelation  to  others  in  the  overwhelming  devotion 
that  the  vision  requires.  Then  it  is  that  the  quaHty 
of  his  inspiration  decides  the  nature  of  the  obscurity 
that  is  certain  to  result.  If  this  vision  be  powerful 
and  his  inspiration  deep  he  will  choose  to  scale 
the  topless  peaks  of  beauty  and  attempt  to  set 
down  the  splendour  of  the  spreading  plains  of 
Truth.  He  will  fail  to  clothe  his  vision  with  the 
necessary  veils.  His  work  will  have  the  obscurity 
of  Nature.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  his  inspiration 
be  more  subtle  and  superficial,  running  hither  and 
thither   in   intricate    mazes    of    wonder,    he    will 


OBSCURITY  AND   POETRY  89 

multiply  veils  on  detailed  portions  of  his  subject, 
adding  one  to  another  according  as  the  various 
points  of  view  and  possible  relations  of  parts  come 
within  his  cognizance.  His  work  will  have  the 
obscurity  of  Art. 

As  the  principle  of  all  Art  can  be  exempUfied 
in  the  production  of  any  Art,  and  as  poetry  is  the 
most  satisfying  of  all  the  Arts,  better  examples 
could  not  be  chosen  to  demonstrate  the  obscuri- 
ties of  Mist  and  Mystery  than  two  poets  in  whose 
works  these  opposite  tendencies  exist.  It  so  hap- 
pens that  something  of  one  of  each  of  these  ten- 
dencies to  obscurity  may  be  observed  in  two 
books  of  poems  that  have  just  been  issued. 

M.  has  followed  the  two  Arts  of  painting  and 
poetry,  and  in  both  of  these  has  manifested  the 
rhythmic  creation  of  beauty.  If  sometimes  we 
have  been  in  doubt  as  to  which  of  these  arts  we 
ought  to  attribute  some  of  his  work,  our  confusion 
is  not  an  arraignment  of  his  methods,  but  rather 
an  assertion  that  by  means  of  the  two  arts  sprung 
from  the  same  necessity,  and  appealing  to  like 
faculties  of  appreciation  he  has  contrived  to  satis  f y 
us  of  their  unity  and  origin  and  essential  identity 
of  purpose.  Though  many  have  remarked  on  the 
unusual  similarity  of  ^.'s  poetry  and  his  painting — 
a  similarity  which  leaves  his  poetry  easily  the 
superior  from  the  point  of  view  of  craft,  as  it  never 
has  the  faulty  draughtsmanship  nor  the  glaring 
crudities    of    colour    occasionally    visible    in    his 


go  OBSCURITY   AND   POETRY 

pictures — none  seem  to  have  mentioned  the  out- 
standing difference  always  and  everj^where  observ- 
able on  comparison  of  these  two  media  of  ex- 
pression. It  is  simply  this,  that  one  is  never  in 
doubt  as  to  what  is  on  the  canvas,  but  one  is  very 
frequently  in  doubt  as  to  what  is  included  in 
M.'s  poems.  Now  let  us  be  very  careful  and  very 
clear.  One  might  say,  "  We  know  that  there  is 
on  the  canvas  a  certain  amount  of  paint,  and  in 
the  poems  a  certain  number  of  syllables."  But 
we  know  much  more  of  what  is  on  the  canvas. 
We  may  not  know  the  ulterior  meaning  of  the 
picture,  if  it  have  one  ;  we  may  not  know  whether 
the  figures  wading  in  the  light-flooded  sea  are 
illusions  of  flesh  and  blood  or  reahties  of  the  spirit  ; 
we  may  not  know  the  secrets  of  the  symbols, 
but  we  do  know  the  symbols.  But  in  the  poems 
we  sometimes  know  nothing  more  than  the  suite 
of  the  syllables.  We  taste  the  honey  of  their 
sound,  but  we  get  no  milk  of  their  meaning.  They 
may  call  up  flashes  of  colour  and  shape,  but  these 
always  fade  and  pass. 

And    burning    multitudes    pour    through    my 

heart  too  bright,  too  blind. 
Too  swift  and  hurried  in  their  flight  to  leave 

their  tale  behind. 

(The  Winds  of  Angus). 

We  do  not  know  these  symbols — if  they  are 
symbols.     We  could  not  be  trusted  to  recognise 


OBSCURITY  AND    POETRY  9I 

them  again.  This  may  be  due  in  some  measure 
to  our  hmitations,  but  it  is  these  limitations  that 
the  artist  must  take  into  account.  We  have, 
however,  some  reason  to  beHeve  that  much  of  ^.'s 
obscurity  is  deHberate,  or  at  least  conscious.  For 
when  he  is  roused  to  rage  he  becomes  cold  and 
clear.  When  he  wishes  to  express  anger  or  disgust 
towards  men  and  conditions,  all  his  immutable 
immensities  go  by  the  board.  He  ceases  to  be  the 
prophet  of  pantheism,  seeing  the  universal  in  the 
smallest  of  things  and  the  immortality  of  Nothing- 
ness at  the  end  of  all.  He  denies  the  kingship  of 
the  beggar  and  the  divinity  of  the  worm.  He 
becomes  Nietzschean  in  his  contempt  for  humiHty  : 

He    does    not    love    the    bended    knees 
The  soul  made  worm-Hke  in  his  sight. 

(Faith) . 
He  asks  with  the  Old  Aristocrat : 

How  came  this  pigmy  rabble  spun, 
After  the  gods  and  kings  of  old  ? 

{The  Iron  Age), 

He  feels  the  reaHty  and  hates  the  oppression  of 
death  : 

The  worship  of  the  dead  is  not 
A  worship  that  our  hearts  allow. 
{On   behalf   of   some   Irishmen   not   followers   of 
Tradition) 


92  OBSCURITY  AND   POETRY 

The  portion  of  Truth  that  he  will  have  is  that 
which  seems  to  be  cut  off  from  the  body  of  Truth, 
and  then  he  prefers  to  hold  it  as  a  heresy — -which 
is  the  last  cold  profanity  of  Pride  : 

No   blazoned  banner  we   unfold — 
One  charge  alone  we  give  to  youth 
Against  the  sceptred  myth  to  hold 
The  golden  heresy  of  Truth. 

(Ibid). 

With  the  withdrawal  of  his  superimposed  beauties 
of  imagery,  his  obscurity  vanishes  and  his  meaning 
stands  clearly  forth,  freed  from  the  mist  of  his  Art. 
As  this  is  the  first  issue  of  Thomas  MacDonagh's 
Lyrical  Poems,  it  is  primarily  necessary  to  tell 
something  of  its  quaHty.  There  is  a  quiet  depth 
of  meaning  and  a  calm  splendour  of  expression 
throughout  the  great  poems  in  this  book  that 
unquestionably  raise  them  to  the  region  of  essen- 
tial poetry.  Tried  b3^  any  of  the  touchstones  of 
criticism,  clarity,  lyrical  beauty,  perfection  of 
imagery,  effortless  rapture,  sympathy  of  human 
feeling,  profundity  of  Vision — ever3rwhere  we 
catch  the  gUnt  of  perfect  gold.  Witness  this  passage 
from  The  Golden  Joy  : 

It  is  the  Spring  and  these  the  songs  of  Spring, 
Songs  of  the  rathe  rose  and  the  lily's  hope — 
For  now  the  Poet  hears  the  lily  call 


OBSCURITY   AND   POETRY  93 

That  came  to  Christ  from  beauty's  natural  shrine 

And,  through  his  hps,  soared  sacred  out  and  up 

Into  the  space  beyond  of  hoHness, 

The  aether  of  the  rapture  of  High  God. 

Oh !    it  steals  to  us  like  the  breath  of  dawn 

That  fills  the  pipes  of  Nature  with  sweet  sounds. 

Steals  low  and  swells  anon  into  chant 

To  throb  and  triumph  through  the  heart  of  Spring 

With  the  clear  canticle  of  Love  that  hails 

The  orient  Epiphany  of  Joy. 

And  now  the  poet  heart  is  calling  too 

And  called  aloud  by  every  voice  divine 

Behind  our  wall  out  through  the  lattices.* 

Now  is  the  season  of  the  Golden  Joy, 

Now  is  the  season  of  the  birth  of  Love — 

The  perfect  passion  of  the  heart  of  God, 

The  rapture  of  the  beauty  of  the  world, 

The  rapture  of  eternity  of  bliss  ! 

For  all  our  Winters  pass  and  all  rains  go, 

And  all  the  flowers  of  Joy  appear  again. 

And  spring  is  green  with  figs  more  beautiful 

And  sweet  with  odours  of  the  mystic  Tree 

That  droops  its  branches  over  Heaven  and  Earth, 

Scattering  flowers  and  fruit  and  passionate  wine 

Down  into  all  the  places  of  the  sun. 

And  into  all  the  nether  places  dim 

Fragrant  with  ecstasy  of  Joy  and  Peace. 

And  who  will  steep  his  senses  in  the  flowers 

And  who  will  feed  his  spirit  on  the  fruit 

And  who  will  fill  his  veins  with  the  great  wine 


94  OBSCURITY  AND   POETRY 

Shall  see  no  Winters  and  shall  feel  no  rains 
But  Joy  perpetual  in  the  Land  of  God. 

In  his  essay  on  Coleridge,  Francis  Thompson  says  ; 
"  There  is  not  one  great  poet  who  has  escaped  the 
charge  of  obscurity,  fantasticalness,  or  affectation 
of  utterance,"  but  we  may  ask,  Is  there  one  great 
poet  who  has  not  deserved  the  charge  of  obscurity  ? 
If  we  limit  the  charge  to  that  kind  of  obscurity 
that  we  have  called  the  obscurity  of  Nature  or 
of  Mystery,  then  to  our  knowledge  there  is  none. 
Certainly  is  some  of  his  poems  Mr.  MacDonagh 
deserves  the  charge.  Much  of  The  Book  of  Images 
is  difficult  if  not  impossible  to  interpret,  but 
the  Vision  is  not  less  clear  for  that,  and  the  one 
thing  that  we  must  insist  on  is  clarity  of  Vision. 
Without  clarity  of  Vision  there  can  be  no  certainty 
of  inspiration.  It  is  only  in  utterance  that  the 
great  poet  is  obscure.  And  it  is  only  in  utterance 
that  Mr.  MacDonagh  is  obscure.  That  is  not 
because  he  does  not  speak  plainly,  it  is  because  he 
speaks  too  plainly  to  be  understood.  Nor  is  it 
because  all  utterance  is  inadequate.  It  is  not 
that  his  words  do  not  mean  enough.  It  is  that 
they  mean  too  much.     When  he  says  : 

The  phases  of  the  might 
Of  God  in  mortal  sight 

I  saw,  in  God's  forethought 

Fashioned  and  wrought. 


OBSCURITY   AND    POETRY  95 

Now  wrought  in  spirit  and  clay, 
In  rare  and  common  day, 

And  shown  in  symbol  and  sign 

Of  power  divine, 

he  is  claiming  inspiration  and  prophecy  as  it  is 
claimed  in  the  Book  of  Wisdom.  He  is  like  Blake, 
holding  infinity  in  the  palm  of  his  hand.  He  is 
stating  his  Vision  of  all  Being  in  eight  short  lines. 
He  makes  a  verse  of  the  Universe.  He  fills  all 
the  heavens  with  a  syllable  and  with  a  word  holds 
the  gates  of  hell.  His  is  the  true  dominion  of  the 
mystic.  In  his  symbolism  Mr.  MacDonagh  shows 
the  same  power  : 

The  flowers  of  heaven  and  earth. 
The  moons  of  death  and  birth. 
The  seasons  of  the  soul, 

are  three  clear  images  which  illustrate  and  illu- 
minate the  obscurity  of  his  form  and  the  precision 
and  plenitude  of  his  meaning.  And  indeed  the 
first  of  these  serves  to  remind  us  of  the  essential 
teaching  of  all  the  great  mystical  poets  from 
Solomon  to  Francis  Thompson — the  doctrine 
that  binds  M.  and  Thomas  MacDonagh  in  the  same 
service  of  beauty,  the  creed  subscribed  to  by'  all 
who  have  experienced  the  divine  vision  ;  for  the 
flowers  of  heaven  and  earth  are  the  same  flowers. 


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